Free Mermaids on the Golf Course by Patricia Highsmith Page B

Simon closed his own wet eyes, and walked off with a straight back.
    Simon took off for Zurich the next morning. He had spoken with his understudy, who had been visibly elated by the chance to replace him for a few days, as Simon had thought he might be. Simon had played well last night. He had recalled Chris’s words: “It’s a craft, it’s not magic—but the audience helps to inspire you, of course. You could say the audience makes the magic.” Simon could hear Chris’s voice saying, under varying circumstances, “Of course, ” which was reassuring when you’d already resolved to do something, and reassuring also when Chris was proposing something like jumping off a cliff without a parachute. “Of course —you can make it. What’s talent for? You’ve got it. It’s like money in the bank. Use it, my boy.” And there was a couplet from William Blake that Chris used to say:
    If the Sun and Moon should doubt,
    They’d immediately go out.
    He felt strange, as if he were going to meet his own death. What nonsense! He was in good form, and at Chris’s house there was not only fresh air but mineral water, paths to hike on, a tennis court that had been there when Chris bought the land, but which Chris had never used. It was going to be something, renewing old acquaintances such as Carl Parker, Peter de Molnay, some phony and some not, some maybe balding and plump. But all successful, like himself. Simon wasn’t in close touch with any. At Christmas, he’d receive an unexpected card from one or two, just as he on some impulse would send a Christmas card to one or two. They all had one thing in common, Chris Wells, who had discovered or befriended or encouraged them all, touched them when they were young with a magic finger, like God giving life to Adam. The image of Michelangelo’s ceiling fresco flashed for an instant into Simon’s mind’s eye, and he flinched at the triteness of it.
    Simon had telephoned High-Ho and told someone, who had sounded like a servant, at what time he would be arriving in Zurich. He had expected Peter or Carl at the airport, but he saw no identifiable faces among the group of waiting people, and then a card with HATTON written on it caught his eye. It was held by a stranger, a sturdy, dark-haired man.
    Simon nodded. “Hatton, yes. Good evening.”
    “Good evening, sir,” said the man with a German accent. “Is this all your luggage?” The man took it from Simon’s grasp. “The car is just this way, sir. Please.”
    The air was crisp, different. Simon sank into the back seat of a large car, and they moved off. “And how is—Mr. Wells?”
    “Y-yes, sir. He is doing quite well. But he must rest much of the time.”
    Simon gave up asking anything more. They rolled on into darkness, and after an hour’s drive Simon sensed the black mountains rising around them, hiding the glints of the stars, though the car did not seem to be climbing. Finally they drove between tall iron gates and tree-shaded houselights came into view. Simon braced himself. A tall, slender figure came to meet the car.
    “Simon! Is that you?”
    This was Peter de Molnay, who opened the door before the driver could. Peter and Simon shook hands firmly—they had known each other very well indeed fifteen years or so ago, but it occurred to Simon that they might as well be strangers now, polite, with polite smiles.
    “Chris is in bed now—but still awake,” Peter said.
    It was midnight, but the eleven guests or visitors were all up, spread between the spacious living room where a fire blazed and the arch-doored kitchen which was now fully lighted and where no doubt a chef was still working.
    “Hello, Simon! Richard—Richard Cook. Remember?” Awkwardly, Richard drew back his hand and gave Simon an embrace with one arm. Richard had quite a belly and was bald on top, gray at the sides—but of course there were roles for just such types, and Simon knew Richard kept busy.
    “Simon! Welcome!”
    “Hey!